


Rappelling Down Mount Vesuvius

by stereomer



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer





	Rappelling Down Mount Vesuvius

"You know we have to be in the studio by 9 tomorrow, right?"

Mikey shifts his gaze from the TV to the dark blob in the corner. Without his glasses, everything's just big splotches of color and shadow, kind of like Gerard's old paint palettes that he'd never fucking wash. "Yeah, but I can't sleep," he answers, and adds, " _Home Movies_  is on, if you're not going back to bed."

The dark blob separates itself from the shadows in the hallway and pads to the couch with muffled footsteps. "Dude, I told you not to wear your sweats like that," Mikey complains. "The elastic part's supposed to go  _around_  your ankle, that's what it's there for."

"Seriously, you have the weirdest pet peeves ever. I'm kind of just doing this to annoy you now," Frank says, his face finally coming into focus as he plops down next to Mikey. He kicks his feet out so that the hems of his sweats, which are pulled down over his feet, flop around limply. His skin is a weird blueish tone from the TV, and his hair looks hilarious.

"I should buy you footie pajamas," Mikey sighs. "It'd be easier on my mental well being."

"If you wash your mugs, I'll wear my sweats the right way. Gimme the blanket," Frank orders. He tries to tug on the edges, but Mikey has the whole thing securely wrapped around him like a crescent roll. Frank huffs and gives up after a few seconds, settling for finally poking his feet out of his sweats and sticking his toes underneath Mikey's thigh.

"I make a good blanket cocoon," Mikey tells him. He tries to shift his shoulders into a more comfortable angle, but it doesn't work. Maybe it's the price to pay for dumpster diving for free furniture, though.

Frank just snorts and leans sideways against the back of the couch, settling his head against the cushions. "Which episode is it?"

"The one where he sprains his ankle."

"Seen it," Frank yawns. "Turn it to the infomercials."

Mikey sticks one hand out to grab the remote and change the channel to the 200s. "Here," he says, handing the remote to Frank before rolling around a bit awkwardly to free the blanket. He lets it balloon out with a flick of his wrists and tries to lay it over both of their legs. Patting out the air and straightening the creases is much harder than his mom used to make it look. 

"You're such a softie, it's kind of embarrassing," Frank says as he flips through the channels with quick presses of his thumb.

Mikey sits back again. "I'm gonna bring this up when I'm on my deathbed. That I gave you the blanket but you were just an asshole anyway."

"Hey, I'll  _be_  by your deathbed, you just said so yourself. I think that says something." Frank grins at him, his teeth glinting bright for a short second. He stops at a channel with close-up shots of a woman's hand modeling an emerald ring. "Sweet. Check that out."

"Looks like something my mom would wear," Mikey comments.

"Maybe you could buy her one after this," Frank suggests.

Mikey assumes that 'this' means everything happening now - them living in this shithole of an apartment with trashed furniture, the jittery insomnia, the terrifying recording sessions. It's got this whole 'preparing for doomsday' feeling about it, somehow.

"Maybe," he agrees. "That chick's hand is kind of gross."

"Yeah, she kind of looks like a  _Simpsons_  character. All yellow skin. But maybe it's the TV," Frank muses. "I wouldn't be surprised if it's the TV."

They watch in silence for a while, laughing quietly whenever the host of the show says something dumb. The screen cuts to a continuous shot of the hand again, this time with a phone number scrolling along the bottom of the frame. Frank says, "I wonder if hand models are hot."

"You freakin' idiot," Mikey instinctively quotes in a whisper-yell.

Frank giggles, catching on immediately. "I'm a hand model, mama. A finger jockey," he quotes back.

Mikey smiles as he watches the camera pan around in a 360 shot of the hand. "I could see her being kind of hot," he says in his normal voice.

"Hm," is all Frank says. He looks at Mikey. "Hey, have you ever gotten your palm read?"

"No," Mikey replies. "I went to a psychic once, but I was pretty wasted."

"Psychics are bullshit. Palm-reading, though," Frank points his index finger up as if to punctuate his opinion, "palm-reading is legit. Here, I can do it. I had a bunch of books about palm-reading when I was a kid." He gestures to Mikey. "Give me your hand, dude."

"You had a bunch of books about palm-reading?" Mikey asks skeptically, but he holds his hand out anyway.

"Yeah, Hambone and I used to go to garage sales and buy random crap. Hmm." Frank wraps one hand around Mikey's wrist; he uses the other to skim over Mikey's palm, tracing out all the lines and rubbing at the pads of his fingertips. Mikey can feel that Frank's own fingertips are covered in a hard layer of dead skin, but it's not weird or anything. Mikey feels like he's been playing bass so much that he could put his hand in a fire and the callouses would protect him from burns.

"What?" Mikey finally asks, because now Frank's kind of hunched over and just loosely holding onto Mikey's hand. He realizes that they've been sitting in silence for a while, and then he realizes how sleepy he's gotten.

Frank twitches his head up. His eyes are hooded as well. "Okay, you want the bad news or the worse news?"

"What?" Mikey says again. He snatches his hand away and examines the lines on his palm. "The worse news, I guess," he says to his hand. There are no obvious death omens that he can pick out - like, the lines don't come together to form a skull or anything.

Frank coughs. "Worse news is that I lied. I can't really read palms.  _Ow_ ," he says loudly when Mikey punches him in the knee, but he laughs afterward.

"You asshole." Mikey punches him again. "What's the bad news?"

"Bad news is that you're still gullible as fuck," Frank says with a grin. "It's a disease with no cure, sorry."

"You being an asshole is a disease with no cure," Mikey mumbles. The end of the sentence slides out of his control as his mouth opens into a wide yawn. He smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and makes satisfied noises. "Taking advantage of my innocence. You're a thief of virgin palms, man, I don't know if I can ever forgive you."

"Virgin palms? I don't have to point out how wrong that sounds, right?" Frank wiggles his toes against Mikey's leg. "Mikes?" he asks.

 

 

When Mikey wakes up, he finds that he's slumped sideways on the couch and has one hand inexplicably wrapped around Frank's ankle. He blinks at Frank, who's still deep asleep. It's weird - Frank still looks like a little kid when he sleeps, one hand tucked loosely near his chin and the other resting on his hipbone, palm facing up. The skin on the inside of his wrist is pale and clean; there are Sharpie stains on the side of his thumb. His index finger twitches in his sleep.

Mikey straightens up and lightly scratches Frank's ankle. "Frank. Time to wake up."


End file.
